


How To Demolish An Entire Civilization And Still Feel Good About Yourself In The Morning

by reconquer



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Steve Rogers, Canon Compliant, Historical Accuracy, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, World War II, like historically accurate to the extreme tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:25:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7908154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reconquer/pseuds/reconquer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wow, you oughta be with God, pal,” Bucky groans, pushing himself up, gingerly taking the glass from Steve’s too-big-for-his-body hands. </p><p>“He ain’t asked me yet.”</p><p>(Bucky, 1939-1945)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer '39

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 12/17/16: doing a massive rehaul of this fic because it's a hot mess! gonna make chapters more managable, getting rid of extranious language, blah blah blah, enjoy! any historical footnotes will be at the bottom of each chapter but if you need me to clarify any details i'd be happy to comply! 
> 
> this fic is dedicated to my lovely and beautiful best friend vicky who listened to every weird historical nugget that i came across for months on end and read this even though she doesn't like captain america. get well soon, my love. we will be together again before you know it.
> 
> title is a sufjan stevens lyric

 

Summer in New York is sticky.

Sticky in that it’s so hot that your hair and clothes cling to your skin and the ice in your drink melts so fast you may as well not have even put any in. Sometimes it gets so bad that dames don’t even bother doing their hair, just tie their thick curls back in tails or plaits and wait for the heat to lift.

The air by Steve’s place is stagnant, just far away enough from the East River to be spared the stench of dead fish that blows off the banks, but nestled right under the Manhattan Bridge, giving the street a perpetual scent of exhaust, rotting garbage, and the ever-present city-smell of piss.

The sun had set hours ago and the humidity has settled close to the ground like it does on summer nights. Bucky feels boneless and heavy, and his arm is slung around—David? Daniel. Danny Moskowitz. He and Bucky had gone to junior high together. He goes to the shul down the street from Bucky’s own, but he’s fair enough to pass as a mick, even in this neighborhood. They both smell like booze and sweat.

“Thanks for walkin’ me back, Danny,” Bucky says before teetering a little to the right, only held upright by Danny’s arm around his waist.

“You’re sloshed, Barnes,” Danny says, a smile playing on his lips. “You wouldn’t’a made it.”

Bucky pulls the both of them over purposefully this time, his back hitting the brick wall of the alley two doors down from Steve’s. Danny follows, pressing his body against Bucky’s.

“What’s this for?” Danny quirks his eyebrows.

“You go through the trouble to walk me _all_ the way back from _Middagh_ Street,” Bucky says, threading his fingers carefully through Danny’s hair. “And you ain’t even gonna give me a goodnight kiss?”

“We’re on the street.”

“It’s late. Nobody’s gonna see.”

All in all, Bucky sucks the guy off right there and gets a rough hand job and purple bruise a little too high above the collar in return.

Steve’s asleep at the kitchen table when Bucky pads his way into the apartment, the wick on his candle long burnt out.

 

“Bucky.”

Bucky groans. His head pounds and he buries his face into the pillow.

“I made coffee, Buck, c’mon.” Steve’s sitting on his own bed, just a few feet from the bedroll they have out for situations like this, holding two mugs of thick, hair-curlingly strong black coffee.

“Wow, you oughta be with God, pal,” Bucky rasps. He pushes himself up on shaky arms, shoves his sweaty bangs away from his face gracelessly.

“He ain’t asked me yet.” Steve smirks. Bucky’s stomach turns. “You was out late last night.”

“Ran into a friend. Did I wake you up?” Bucky sips at the coffee. The flavor grounds him and makes the room stop spinning a little.

“Don’t think so. Your friend a vampire?” Steve’s eyes flicker down to the mark on Bucky’s neck, and Bucky’s ears burn.

“A succubus, actually. I just couldn’t help myself.”

“Do I know her?”

“Probably not.”

Steve leers at Bucky over his mug. “Did you pay her?”

“No!” Bucky’s face feels like it’s on fire, and he sets the coffee down. “I know her through Jew stuff, is all. You really wouldn’t know her.”

“Jew stuff.”

“Yeah, she goes to the synagogue down the street from mine. What’s with the fuckin’ interrogation here, Rogers?”

“I’m just curious.” Steve studies his coffee. “Say, if you get eggs from downstairs, I’ll cook us some breakfast.”

Bucky ends up picking up corned beef and potatoes from the corner store, too, because he just got his paycheck and nothing’s better for a hangover than Steve’s corned beef hash.

Bucky sits in the chair closest to the window while Steve cooks, trying to soak up the cool morning air before it becomes unbearable again. He scans the front page of the New York Times (HEAT OF 90° HERE ADDS TO HUGE LOSS CAUSED BY DROUGHT; JAPAN BLOCKS BRITISH TRADE BY CLOSING RIVER TO CANTON) before sifting through the rest of the papers strewn about the table. Steve’s electric bill (late), the CPUSA asking for donations (ironic), Macy’s catalogue (Steve, why?)—

“Telegram?”

Steve tenses minutely, signified only by the telltale hunching of his shoulders.

“From Welfare Island,” he says, a little strained. “They’re putting Ma on some experimental drug program.”

“Well that’s good, ain’t it?”

Steve shrugs. “It’s better than nothing.”

 

Steve’s art school friends are. Well, they’re something.

Well, they’re artists. They’re all a little snobby, a little too upper class and fast-talking for Bucky to quite keep up with, but they’re nice. They treat Steve better than any of the neighborhood assholes ever did, so Bucky can’t really fault them on that.

Plus, they do things like pick him and Steve up in Mr. Bouvier’s brand-new Mercedez Benz in front of God and everyone (okay, mostly Vinny Robustelli, who Steve, and subsequently Bucky, gets into a fight with at _least_ twice a month) to whisk them away to their old-money summer house in the Hamptons.

“Have you fellas ever been out on Long Island?” Florence asks as they fly east on the Ocean Parkway.

“Well, me and Bucky technically _live_ on Long Island,” Steve positively beams. Florence snorts and lifts her foot off the gas to kick between Steve’s ankles. Bucky fiddles with the radio, but the frequency is shit this far out. “Is everyone already at the house?”

“Yeah, Peter and Julia are there. Charlie was going to try and make it, last I heard.”

“Which means he ain’t coming,” Steve responds. Florence shrugs.

Steve and Florence chat about school and professors and other shit that Bucky doesn’t know about, so he just leans out the passenger seat window and watches the landscape get sparser as the ocean gets closer, sparkling bright blue in a way it only can this deep into summer.

They arrive at the house as the hottest part of the day starts to fade, giving way to that golden summer afternoon light. Peter and Julia are lying on their towels in their swimming costumes nursing beers from bottles, deep in conversation. They grin and wave when Steve, Bucky, and Florence pass to go in the house to change, but go back to their own conversation quickly.

“He’s been talking Julia’s ear off about the situation in Europe for months,” Florence says as soon as the back door swings shut behind them. “Only reason she puts up with it is because she’s half in love with him. I don’t know how she doesn’t see it—he couldn’t be more obvious short of putting on a dress.”

“That ain’t nice, Flo,” Steve scowls.

“Hey, I’m not insulting him, just stating what’s true,” Florence shrugs. “You see it, Bucky, don’t you?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, impassive.

Steve rolls his eyes, mutters “Whatever,” under his breath, and goes off to change into his swimming shorts.

Julia smiles at them when they come back out, glassy-eyed. Peter’s mouthing at a cigar.

“They’re setting Poland up to _fail,_ ” Peter’s saying. “They’re all acting like they _want_ a war. You’ve been keeping up, haven’t you, Steve?”

“Of course,” Steve says. “But I think the only way to beat the Nazis is to fight them.”

“War solves nothing,” Peter spits. “Glad I’m in the States—no way we’re gonna get involved in that mess.”

“Maybe we _should_ ,” insists Steve. “What would’a happened if we didn’t enter the Great War?”

“The Europeans should handle their own business. We can’t afford to go to war!”

Florence makes eye contact with Bucky, exasperated. She cracks open two beers and they watch Steve and Peter go at it while Julia dozes next to them until the sun goes down.

 

There are enough rooms in the house for them to double up. Bucky and Steve have shared beds plenty of times—Sarah worked night shifts all last winter, so Steve had basically moved in with Bucky, huddled against him at night to try and keep that horrible, racking cough away for as long as possible.

It’s oppressively hot tonight, though, and Bucky hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep. Steve was drunk enough to pass out pretty much immediately, but Bucky feels like the heat is smothering him. He turns over and squints at his watch in the dark.

2:27 AM.

He heaves a sigh, swings his legs out of the bed, pulls on the white sleeveless undershirt he’d thrown on the floor in a fit of frustration earlier. He pads down the stairs, careful not to make noise outside of the other bedrooms.

The kitchen and living room are joined and the lamp that’s on next to the couch is enough for Bucky to see both. The light glints off Peter’s glasses, his dark hair a riot and his nose is buried in a book.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Bucky asks, taking a glass from the cupboard. Peter blinks and looks up at Bucky.

“Didn’t hear you come down,” he mutters, shutting the book and placing it on the side table. “Nope. I’m not really used to the heat here in New York yet. What’s your excuse?”

“Too quiet out here in the sticks.” Bucky fills his glass at the tap and wanders over to the couch. He leaves a healthy amount of distance between them when he sits. “Plus, I got an electric fan in my room at home.”

“Wow, what a luxury.”

Bucky cracks a smile. “We don’t all live in shanty houses in Brooklyn, y’know.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.” Peter draws his leg up onto the couch, twisting at the waist to face Bucky. “Don’t think I’ve ever caught you alone before,” he mutters, almost to himself. Bucky hums into his glass, choosing to drink rather than reply. He’s inexplicably nervous, paranoid in a way that’s making his toes dig into the rug. “You’re not in school, are you?”

“No,” Bucky answers, relieved. It’s just small talk. He sets his glass down carefully on the coffee table in front of them. “There’s nothin’ I’m especially good at. I didn’t even graduate high school.”

“So what do you do?”

“I’m a clerk. I crunch numbers.”

Peter frowns. “Yeesh. That’s rough.”

“Aw, it ain’t that bad,” Bucky says, letting himself smile a little, relax. “I’m okay at math. It’s calming. The answer’s right in front of you as long as you look hard enough.”

“Well, what do you guys do for fun, then?”

“Drink, mostly.”

Peter laughs. “Whereabouts? Some guys downtown have taken a liking to some hang in Brooklyn. Henry Street, I think they said.”

“Yeah, I been around there,” Bucky says without thinking. He’d unconsciously moved in towards Peter, arm resting on the back of the couch and knees pointed in his direction. Peter’s fingertips are resting on Bucky’s knee, he realizes belatedly.

“Some hotel—George something-or-other.” Bucky doesn’t say anything, just holds eye contact steady. “Does Steve know you go there?”

Bucky huffs a laugh, not expecting that question. “Why should Steve care where I go to take care of my business?”

“Guess he wouldn’t. Are you gonna tell him, though?”

“Tell him what?” Bucky’s mouth is dry and he wishes he hadn’t put that water so far away. Peter’s eyes are hazel, not brown, the color obscured behind his glasses.

Peter tilts his head. “Does anyone know?”

“Uh,” Bucky breathes. Their noses are bumping up against each other and Peter’s fingers are on the back of his neck.

There’s nothing hard about the way Peter kisses. It’s certainly not chaste, but Bucky’s used to grinding, back alleys and brick walls and dumpsters. He can’t remember the last time he actually spoke to a person before getting down with them and anyone could come down and see them any minute and, Christ, this is _exhilarating._ Peter sucks at Bucky’s bottom lip and Bucky whines, high-pitched and pathetic. His fists are clenched around the collar of Peter’s t-shirt and Peter’s hand is sliding up Bucky’s thigh, underneath his boxer shorts to—

“Fuck. Stop, stop.” Bucky jerks away harder than he meant to, shoves Peter’s hand away.

“You get excited fast,” Peter murmurs, eyes flicking momentarily to Bucky’s lap. Bucky flushes and covers his lap with his hands like a teenager.

“I ain’t a queer, Peter.”

“I would beg to differ. You were hard before we even started.” He’s right. “Are you gonna answer my question?”

“No, Steve doesn’t know, and he ain’t gonna find out,” Bucky hisses.

“It’s not like Steve would care,” Peter points out. “He knows I’m a queer, and we’re friends.”

“I just—it’s different between us than it is with you guys.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Really? And how’s that?”

“We’ve known each other since we were kids. We tell each other everything, we share everything. You’re all—radical, cool, artists, and I’m. It’s just. Different.”

“So, what?” Peter finally backs off, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “You’re just gonna keep it a secret your whole life?”

“Well, yeah.” Bucky gives him an incredulous look. “That’s what everyone else does.”

“That’s not a life, Barnes.”

“Well, what are _you_ gonna do? Get married to a man?” Bucky’s voice is shaking and he’s trying not to yell.

There’s poison in the glare he receives from Peter and a hint of a snarl at the corner of his mouth.

Bucky breathes out shakily. He stands, maybe a little too fast, and his limbs feel like jelly.

“This didn’t happened.” Bucky’s surprised by the gruffness in his voice. “You can’t tell anyone about this, Peter, or I swear to God—“

Peter cuts Bucky off. “Got it.” He’s still on the couch in that same spot, eyes trailing Bucky around the room. He freezes with one foot on the stair.

“He wouldn’t think of you any differently, Bucky. He’s the best guy I know. It wouldn’t change anything,” Peter says so softly that Bucky has to strain to hear.

“Yeah.” Bucky swallows. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Middagh Street is a historically gay street in Brooklyn Heights. Steve lives in modern-day DUMBO, which would've been called Fulton Landing at the time.
> 
> CPUSA = Communist Party of USA
> 
> Hotel St. George was considered a gay hang-out, mostly because they would indiscriminately rent out rooms.


	2. Fall '39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The city is holding its breath.

It’s a Friday, so by the time Bucky gets downstairs for breakfast his father is already at the family grocery store tending to the Shabbat rush. Bucky sees his sister first, who glances up from her cereal and mimes tugging at the collar of her shirt, then subtly points at the newspaper on the kitchen table.

“Jimmy?” Mrs. Barnes calls from the stove.

“Morning, Ma,” Bucky says. Becca stares at him. “Is there coffee left?”

“Yes,” she says. “In the pot.”

“Thanks.” His mother and sister reply with silence, a departure from their usual weekday morning bickering. The only sounds in the room are Bucky’s spoon clinking against the edge of his mug and his mother rolling matzo meal. “You’re making matzo ball soup?”

“I am,” Mrs. Barnes replies, eyes fixed on the food she’s preparing.

“Um, why?”

“For Shabbat dinner tonight.”

Bucky frowns. “We haven’t observed Shabbat since my bar mitzvah.”

“Well, I just think it’s important, Jimmy.”

“O-kay,” Bucky says, taking a sip of his coffee and sitting at the kitchen table. Becca is still staring at him, fingers playing with the edge of the New York Times.

“ _What_ , Becca?” He spits. She looks pointedly down at the headline between them:

GERMAN ARMY ATTACKS POLAND; CITIES BOMBED, PORTS BLOCKADED; DANZIG IS ACCEPTED INTO REICH.

Bucky stands abruptly, grabbing Becca’s arm and dragging her into the front parlor.

“Is Dad upset?” Bucky asks, trying to keep his voice low so his mother can’t hear.

“I ain’t answering ‘til you call me by my real name,” Becca pouts, crossing her arms.

“Fine, _Rebecca_ , is Dad upset?”

“Of course Abba’s upset,” Becca responds.

“Abba? Seriously? We haven’t called him that since we were kids.” Bucky scrubs his hand over his face. “Just ‘cuz there’s a war on don’t mean we gotta become fucking born-again Jews.”

Becca sucks at her teeth. “Didn’t know you hated it so much.”

“I don’t. But Mom’s acting weird and you’re not helping.”

“Remember—remember last year when Nazis smashed up all those Jewish shops in Germany?” Becca asks. Bucky nods. “Abba was so sad. He wants to be American so _bad_.” She pauses. “But he’s still from there. It must be so hard to watch the country you grew up in turn on you like that. We probably still have family there.”

Bucky grimaces. She’s right. Their father had arrived at Ellis Island with his mother, Bucky’s bubbe, when he was probably Becca’s age—fifteen or sixteen—and enlisted in the American army when the war had broken out. Bucky’s bubbe once told Bucky that his father came back from the front a different man. Bucky’s seen grainy photos of him from before, his face unlined and as free as the hills of The Pale that stood behind him.

 

The city is holding its breath.

Steve was sick to his stomach with anxiety when Bucky showed up at his place after work and so Bucky had dragged him out, insisting that the eve of a war was the _perfect_ time to get plastered.

But the streets are almost totally bare. Bars are near empty or closed and there aren’t any cruisers, dames or fellas, whistling at him and Steve as they stalk through the shipyards. It’s as if all seven million New Yorkers had shuttered their windows and locked their doors, just waiting for something to happen.

They finally give up and head back to Steve’s, a horrible pit in Bucky’s stomach.

Britain and France officially declare war on Germany two days later, but the city doesn’t exhale.

 

“Remind me why I’m doing this again?”

“You’re always tellin’ me to stand up for myself, Buck.” Steve’s taping his fists all wrong. He’s wearing the smallest sized shorts that Bucky could scrounge up but they still hang low on his hips, giving the illusion that he’s even skinnier than he already is. “I just wanna stick up for the little guy, and maybe myself while I’m at it.”

Bucky sighs. “I’m not sure I’d count Great Britain as the little guy, but okay.” He crosses the mat and undoes Steve’s fucked up tape. Holding Steve’s hand in his as he wraps it feels weirdly intimate even in Goldie’s dank, sweaty gym. The place is empty—on one hand this is great, because Bucky was pretty paranoid the other guys would take one look at Steve and go down swinging. On the other, he’s alone with Steve with their testosterone about to be running high, wearing shorts that barely go past Bucky’s balls.

Bucky taps the tape to make sure it’s secure, swallows, and stores that thought away for a different day.

“So the first thing I’m gonna teach you is how to throw a punch.”

“I already know how to throw a punch. I been throwin’ punches my whole life.”

“Yeah, and how many fingers you broke doin’ that?”

Steve just stares at him, thick brows pulled together in the pinched look he gets when Bucky’s right and he knows it.

Steve squares his shoulders back and lifts his chin. “Alright, fine. So let’s go.”

“We’ll start with a cross. Put your fists on either side of your face—yeah, like that—your right leg should be behind you. Bend both of your knees. That’s how you should be throwing all of your punches.”

Bucky takes a step back to look at Steve. A stray thought flits across his mind telling him that Steve looks _cute,_ of all things. If anything, he looks silly, his bony elbows jutted out too far and stubborn duck feet pointed in two different directions. Bucky comes over and moves everything into place.

“Okay. You’re right-handed, so that’s the hand you’ll punch with. You’re just gonna punch in a straight line, but make sure you rotate your hips while you’re doing that if you don’t want it to hurt. And transfer your weight to your front foot while you punch. Got that?”

“Think so. Can I try it?”

“Sure, let’s see it.”

The punch looks surprisingly solid. He lets Steve pantomime a couple more times before moving him to a bag. He teaches him a jab and a right hook but ends the session after only an hour. Steve’s breathing has that empty rattling noise that preludes an asthma attack, and Bucky knows Steve won’t stop until he physically can’t continue.

They go back every day for two weeks. Steve has marked improvement—he even lands one on Bucky, who’d let out an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp when Steve’s fist connected with his face. He’d had a shiner for days and he caught Steve suppressing a little smile every time he caught sight of it.

Bucky doesn’t have the heart to tell him that the army’s not going to care how well he can box if he can’t run more than five minutes without his lungs seizing up, even as they’re walking through the doors of the recruitment center.

“You sure you don’t wanna try enlisting, too?” Steve settles in the chair of the waiting room next to Bucky with a clipboard and a fancy pen.

“Doubt they’d want me,” Bucky grins. “I’m morally defunct.”

“No you ain’t.” Steve rolls his eyes. “You’re just lazy.”

“Same thing.”

Bucky smokes half a pack of cigarettes waiting for Steve to be done with the physical and screening. He’s not a very religious man, but he figures that now would be a good time for God to do him a solid.

 

Bucky hadn’t even had to ask Steve when he exited the building, his hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets and wearing his Bucky-was-right face.

He says _shehechiyanu_ three times that evening, finding the words of thanks in a language he’ll never understand engraved somewhere deep in his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Abba" means "Daddy" in Hebrew and Yiddish.
> 
> "The Pale" refers to The Pale of Settlement, which borders the Baltic states in the north, western Russia to the east, Austria-Hungary to the south and Prussia to the west. Jews were allowed to permanently reside in this area and not outside of it, enforced by the Russian Empire from the 1790s at the earliest to the fall of the Russian Empire. Many Ashkenazi Jews are from this area.
> 
> Shechecheyanu is the prayer of thanks.


	3. Winter '39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s friends celebrate Thanksgiving on the third week of November and Bucky’s family celebrates it on the fourth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here comes the M rating!

Steve’s friends celebrate Thanksgiving on the third week of November and Bucky’s family celebrates it on the fourth. Steve chucks up his food after the first dinner, not used to having so much of it on his plate at once. He purposefully takes small portions and politely asks for seconds once his stomach settles at the Barnes’ a week later.

It’s nice to see Steve sprawled across Bucky’s bed looking well-fed, warm, and comfortable. They both fall asleep under the covers with their socks on like they did when they were kids and Sarah would tuck them under those heavy quilts Steve’s grandmother had brought over from Ireland.

Bucky wakes up the next morning spooned around Steve with an aching hard-on and his hand up Steve’s shirt. The guy sleeps like the dead and even though Bucky’s sure he didn’t even notice, he still feels like he’s walking on eggshells around Steve for the next couple of days.

Winter dryness sucks all the life out of the city and settles in Steve’s lungs in the first week of December. Bucky stays over Steve’s for weeks at a time, rubbing his back and holding his head over a pot of steaming water, wincing whenever those coughs rack around his ribcage. With Christmas fast approaching and still no news about Sarah, Bucky’s constantly fretting over Steve. He feels guilty when he’s at work and not with Steve and even guiltier when he _is_ with him, afraid he’s going to lose control and kiss the poor bastard out of the sheer need to express that someone is _there_ for him.

“Steve,” Bucky says the Friday before Christmas. They’re in Steve’s bed, Bucky on his back and Steve on his side curled around Bucky’s torso, quilts pulled all the way up to Steve’s nose. It’s late, but Bucky knows Steve’s not asleep. “What’re you doing for Christmas?”

“Haven’t thought about it.” Bucky knows a lie when he hears one and it pangs around his gut.

“My family and I go to Chinatown every year on Christmas Eve. I know it’s not exactly Catholic tradition, but do you wanna come with?”

“Yeah. I would like that a lot.” Steve pauses. “I was planning on going to midnight mass.”

“Alone?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You said you thought churches were creepy.” Bucky can feel Steve smiling against his neck and hopes Steve doesn’t notice his heart rate pick up.

“I probably did say that,” Bucky admits. “But I don’t want you to have to go by yourself. I know you usually go with your mom, so…”

Steve’s fist twists into Bucky’s shirt but he keeps his voice even. “Yeah, Bucky. I would really like that.”

 

They go to the church Steve’s been going his whole life. Bucky’s only been once, for Steve’s First Communion. It was a culture shock—in Bucky’s memory, the service was dead silent, occasionally punctuated with the priest chanting in Latin while turned away from the congregation. He couldn’t stop staring at Jesus on the cross and the Eucharist minister gave him a dirty look when he refused communion.

The place is busier tonight than it was that day, and Bucky thinks people are in higher spirits. The sconces are fully lit this time and the pews are totally full. Children are in their best, looking proud to be up past their bedtime. The crèche is set up on the altar and the procession had already started by the time they walk in.

They find a spot near the back as the priest starts the reading. It seems to go on forever and Bucky’s back is starting to ache from all the sitting and standing. The service blends together and he eventually stops pretending to follow along in the little book Steve had grabbed for him when they walked in.

The service ends close to 2:30 in the morning. It’s bitterly cold out and once they’re more than a block away from the church, they’re totally alone. Steve’s pressed up against Bucky’s side and his eyes are the only thing visible on his face, his mouth, nose, and hair covered by his scarf and hat. Bucky wraps his arm around Steve and squeezes.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” Steve says, a little muffled. His voice is raw from coughing and he’s shivering hard enough for it to be physically exhausting for him.

“Of course, Steve,” Bucky answers. “We’re family. I know this is important to you.”

They walk in silence for a few minutes, their boots crunching on ice the only sounds around them.

“Bucky, you know I’m here for you too, right?”

Bucky nearly stops walking. He would’ve, if it hadn’t been so cold. “What?”

“You’re always worrying about me,” Steve continues. “And I get why, I’m not that oblivious. But I can tell that something’s bothering you. Has been since summer.”

“I’m fine.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, a well-practiced lie.

“Okay,” Steve concedes. Bucky wishes desperately that Steve would fight him, call him out on in that righteous holier-than-thou Steve way, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls them to a stop, wraps his hands around Bucky’s waist and buries his head into Bucky’s chest. Bucky returns the hug immediately, his heart aching as he wraps his arms around Steve’s neck.

They just stand there, time seemingly frozen around them.

 

“You’re supposed to actually _wait_ till midnight to open that, y’know,” Steve points out. Bucky grins, already way over the edge of drunk, and braces the bottle of champagne against his hip as Florence fiddles with the bottle opener.

“Well, where’s the fun in that, sweetheart?” Bucky throws Steve a wink as Florence opens the champagne with a pop, the bottle spewing liquid all over the floor, narrowly missing Bucky’s socked feet. Steve turns red all the way down his collar and takes a polite sip of his drink.

Peter strides into the room with champagne flutes and grabs the bottle out of Bucky’s sticky hands, and Julia hops up to help pour. Florence giggles somewhere high in her throat and sags against Bucky. He settles a hand against her waist and carefully (drunkenly) stumbles backwards to sit them down on the couch. He narrowly avoids sitting down right on top of Steve but Florence practically falls into Bucky’s lap. Bucky knows she’d taken bennies before they showed up, so she’s bouncing off the walls. Peter’s a sloppy drunk and tonight is no exception—he’d already tipped half a bottle of wine all over the counter and had given Steve and Bucky one slobbery kiss on the cheek each when they walked in. Julia had seemed mostly sober when they’d walked in, so Bucky had dragged her into the kitchen and poured them both shots of Florence’s parent’s fancy Cuban rum.

The radio’s blaring and Peter’s ditched trying (and failing) to get the cork out of a new bottle in favor of swinging Julia around, her skirt twisting around her legs in a smooth arc. She laughs brightly and then stumbles back over her own feet, landing backwards on her ass with a sharp yell.

“Hey, hey,” Steve rushes to help her up since Peter seems too busy laughing.

“Thanks, Steve,” she says softly.

“Don’t want to ruin the moment or anything, but it’s one minute till midnight,” Peter calls out, tapping his watch dramatically. He sits down heavily on Bucky’s couch and props his feet up on Bucky’s free thigh. Steve and Julia had sat down closest to the radio so Steve leans over to change the station to NBC.

They’re all downing their glasses before the countdown gets below ten. Bucky catches a glimpse of Julia’s hand slipping into Steve’s and he makes eye contact with Steve, waggling his eyebrows at him.

Florence kisses him on the mouth when they get to zero and her mouth tastes like her waxy lipstick and vodka. There’s another hand on his face and his head is being turned to kiss Peter. His stomach lurches for a second, reminding him that Steve can see him, but he’s too drunk to care, and it’s just a New Year’s kiss. Peter licks into his mouth and Bucky shivers.

“Why don’t we give ‘em some space, huh?” He hears Julia say distantly and Steve hums in agreement. He hears them get up and a door shut behind them and gives an internal sigh of relief.

Florence is sucking bruises on his neck and Peter’s bitten his bottom lip raw. She wedges a knee between Bucky’s legs and grinds and he gasps, lets out a strangled noise. He’s never done this with two people before and it’s almost too much. They’re two solid weights at his front and side and his hands are scrabbling against Florence’s dress and the couch. Peter pulls away and Bucky sucks in a breath he didn’t realize he so desperately needed.

“Bedroom,” he mutters. His pupils are blown and directed up at Florence, not Bucky. “You have stuff?”

“Of course I do,” Florence breaths into Bucky’s ear, sending chills down his spine. “What do you take me for?”

“Wha-what?” Bucky stammers. “Have you guys—done this before?”

“What, shared a fella?” Florence leans back onto her calves to look at Bucky. “Sure. Is this okay with you?”

Bucky swallows. The room is spinning. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You sure?” Peter says, suddenly serious.

“Let’s just do this before I change my mind,” Bucky breathes.

Florence smirks and stands up, pulling Bucky with her. She leads them to her bedroom, locks the door carefully behind them.

Peter is on Bucky in an instant, crowding him against the door, biting at his collarbones and grinding his hips against Bucky’s. He moans as Peter undoes his button-down and belt buckle. Suddenly he’s being pulled off the door and hands are grabbing at his shirt and pants, tugging them off, leaving him in just his skivvies while the other two are fully clothed.

“Wouldn’t have guessed you were an invert, Barnes,” Florence says as she tugs the shirt over his head. She pushes him down on the bed and he scrambles backwards to sit up against the headboard.

“I’m straight and narrow, dollface,” he smirks back at her.

“Yeah, you just suck cock ‘cause it’s good money, huh?” Peter snaps as he pulls his own pants off. There’s no heat behind the words and he leans down to kiss Bucky and run his hand down his chest quick enough.

Florence is in just her briefs and grabs something from the bedside table before clambering on top of him. She wriggles Bucky’s boxers off and kisses him and he can feel Peter’s hand grab his dick and start pumping. His moan echoes in his ears and his mouth goes slack against Florence’s. He hears the crinkling of plastic and Peter’s rolling a condom down over him and Florence is naked and she’s sinking down on him—

He hasn’t had sex with a girl in ages, just hadn’t had the energy to pretend all that much anymore, and it feels _so good._ That’s the thing about sex, Bucky thinks—it’s all the same, no matter who you’re doing it with. Bucky likes the hard ridges of men’s hips, stubble scraping and burning against his face, feeling their cocks sliding against his, but the tight, wet heat and release is all the same. It’s just getting there that’s exhausting.

Bucky lets his head fall back as Florence bounces on his lap. Peter’s sucking at one of his nipples and Bucky’s toes curl into the bed as Peter rolls it between his teeth. One of Florence’s hands is rubbing furiously at her own clit and he can already feel her tightening around him.

She comes in a series of breathy gasps and pulls off. Bucky’s heart is pounding and he thinks that if his balls got any tighter they’d disappear. Florence slumps next to him and hands Peter a container of Vaseline. Bucky eyes it as Peter coats his fingers and settles between Bucky’s legs.

“You done this before?” Peter asks and presses a finger up against Bucky’s perineum. Bucky swallows and shakes his head no. His pomade had worn out hours ago and his hair hangs loose, almost covering his eyes.

“Lay down,” Florence says and Peter tugs at his thighs so that he’s on his back.

Peter carefully puts a slicked finger in. It doesn’t feel good or bad, just kind of weird as his body tries to adjust to this new feeling.

“Okay?” Peter asks, pumping in and out almost too gently.

“Another,” Bucky gasps, surprised at how wrecked he sounds. He grunts when Peter puts a second finger in, but the stretch and the slick of the Vaseline feels good now. Florence is kissing lazily along his neck and Peter angles Bucky’s hips up and Peter hits something and, holy shit, Bucky is seeing stars, and he thinks he yells but he can’t be sure.

“What the fuck,” he breathes out as almost one word.

“You good?”

“Yeah, I’m _swell,_ just keep—” He cuts himself off with another groan as Peter hits that spot again. Bucky’s dick jerks against his stomach and he thinks he might come like this, untouched. Peter adds a third finger and Bucky thinks he’s literally panting.

“Fu-u-uck, I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not,” Florence says and reaches out to grab his dick just wrong, squeezing the base so he can’t come. “Not until I watch him fuck you.”

Peter lets out a low noise, letting his cool façade crack. He pulls his fingers out of Bucky and flips him over onto his stomach roughly. Bucky buries his face into the pillow and rubs his dick against the sheets.

Peter’s dick slides up against Bucky’s ass and Bucky groans and pushes against him. Peter knocks Bucky’s legs wider and pushes in.

It feels nothing like Peter’s fingers had. Peter feels unbelievably big, like he’s splitting Bucky open. He feels his hard-on start to flag before Peter finally hits that spot again. Bucky coughs, the force of it knocking all the breath out of him.

Peter establishes a rhythm, and it hurts but it feels really, really good, too. The world is spinning behind Bucky’s eyelids and he’s hard again, painfully so, and almost shoots off immediately when Peter finally gives him the reach-around.

It only takes a few pumps until he’s coming all over the sheets. He feels Peter shudder and come inside of him, then pulls out and lies down next to him.

They lay there, just breathing, and Bucky feels the bed dip as Florence sits down (when did she get up? Bucky almost forgot she was there). There’s a warm rag running between Bucky’s legs and ass and Bucky jerks with surprise.

“You really don’t want to fall asleep with jism in you,” Florence says and Peter laughs. She tosses the rag somewhere, Bucky doesn’t know.

He’s already halfway to sleeping and Peter runs a hand through his hair. He makes a contented noise and lets himself drift off completely.

 

Bucky comes to in bits and pieces. The first thing he knows, before he’s even fully conscious, is that he _aches._ His back, his thighs, between his legs hurt. Dull pain thrums through his lower body.

The next thing he notices is his head pounding and stomach churning. He’d know a hangover anywhere, and this was it.

He pushes himself up. He’s preoccupied with the fact that his front is all sticky when his arm bumps someone else’s, and he looks over and—

Oh, God.

Oh, _fuck._

He scrambles out of bed, grabs what he thinks are his boxers from the floor and tugs them on as fast as he can, and makes a beeline straight to the bathroom.

He throws up in that horrible way you do when you’re hungover: all at once, heave, start over. By the time he’s done, he’s shaking and sweaty and he has to wipe tears from his face. He pushes himself up and leans heavily against the sink, catching his reflection in the mirror.

He looks like absolute shit. He’s scarily pale and his dark stubble and the circles beneath his eyes stand out like bruises. His neck is splotchy purple and his hair is sticking up in all directions. There’s dried spunk in his chest hair, and the sight of that almost makes him spew again, right into the sink.

He rummages in the medicine cabinet until he finds a tube of Pepsodent, squeezes some onto his finger and brushes his teeth the best he can. He runs some water over his face, his chest, his hair.

He pads back to Florence’s bedroom. Florence and Peter are both still out for the count but he still puts his clothes back on as quietly as possible.

He doesn’t notice Steve sitting at the kitchen table until he turns around from searching for his left shoe beneath the couch. Bucky starts and Steve just stares at him over his coffee mug.

“We oughta stop meeting like this,” Bucky laughs breathlessly. Knowing Steve’s not going to let him go without a fight, he puts his shoe down and pours himself coffee from the pot. “You hungover?”

“You bet.” Steve’s voice is quiet. Bucky’s sure hangovers are a million times worse for Steve, magnifying the pains in his chest and back, blurring his already fucked vision. “You sure had fun last night. You ain’t quiet.”

Bucky sits down and ducks his head, face burning. “Um. Sorry.”

A shadow of a smile flickers across Steve’s face and he takes a long pull from his mug. Bucky does the same. Steve puts his mug down gently.

“You kissed Peter.”

“Peter kissed me,” Bucky shoots back without missing a beat. Steve winces and rubs at his temples. Bucky lowers his voice. “Told him off right quick. I ain’t got issues with fairies, but I don’t want ‘em touchin’ me like that.”

“But he went to bed with you guys, didn’t he?”

“He just watched. Like I said—”

“You don’t want fruits touchin’ you. Right.”

“What’d you and Julia get up to?” He kicks at Steve’s feet under the table and it’s Steve’s turn to duck his head. “You finally get your wick wet?”

“Nah,” Steve says. “She gave me a BJ, though. Lost it in about eight seconds.” Bucky laughs too hard, making himself wince with pain.

The clock on the wall says it’s barely 7 AM, too early for anyone else to be awake. Steve’s been an early riser ever since he did that newspaper boy stint when he was a teenager and Bucky’s body always wakes him up ungodly early when he’s hungover.

They decide to hit the road before the city starts to wake up (or, in Bucky’s case, before he has to look Peter in the face).

The evidence of the previous night is strewn all over the city—guys who were too drunk to get home are huddled in the staircases of brownstones and in the subway stations. The only people on the trains look about as shit and Steve and Bucky do.

Bucky’s dead tired again by the time they get to Steve’s and he kicks his shoes off at the door and flops down on the couch immediately. Steve settles in the big armchair with a blanket wrapped around his skinny shoulders and his sketchbook in hand.

“You mind if I draw you?” Steve asks, but his pencil is already moving across the page.

“Knock yourself out,” Bucky murmurs into the pillow. “You gonna go steady with Julia now?”

“Doubt I’ll ever go steady with anyone,” Steve says miserably.

“You’re a catch, Stevie,” Bucky assures him. “You just gotta wait for the right person to come along, is all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving 1939-1941: Called Franksgiving, FDR moved Thanksgiving one week earlier to bolster the economy and give people more time to shop. Early Thanksgiving called “Democrat’s Thanksgiving” and normal Thanksgiving was “Republican Thanksgiving.” 
> 
> The Jewish tradition of eating Chinese food on Christmas Eve is decades old at this point! It was spurred on by the proximity of the Lower East Side and Chinatown and a common non-religion. 
> 
> "Bennies," or benzedrine, is an extremely popular recreational drug in this period. Benzedrine is an amphetamine and originally used for asthma medication, but have similar effects to modern-day Adderall.


	4. Spring/Summer '40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Germany had been fighting in France for two weeks when Sarah dies.

The war is really and truly raging overseas now. Bucky spends too many mornings with his parents around the radio, listening to news about civilian casualties in the Blitzkrieg or whatever new country Germany had invaded or annexed. There are rumors about Jews and Gypsies and queers being rounded up and disappearing without a trace and whispers about America fully joining the war effort.

 

Germany had been fighting in France for two weeks when Sarah dies.

 

Bucky was with Steve when he got the news. They’d just gotten back to Steve’s from the pictures and they had forgone taking the train, choosing to walk and enjoy the first real warmth of the year.

Bucky had started boiling potatoes for supper when there’s a knock on the door. Steve sets his sketchpad down to get it and Bucky hears a murmur of brief conversation and the door shut.

Steve pauses. Bucky turns around and Steve’s back is against the door and he’s holding an unopened telegram envelope. His hands are shaking.

“Steve,” Bucky says. There’s a lump in his throat. He can’t see the envelope but he doesn’t need to.

Steve slips his finger into the envelope and rips. Bucky strides over to him as he pulls the slip of paper out.

I DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT SARAH ROGERS PASSED YESTERDAY MORNING THE 24TH STOP KINDLY REQUEST YOUR PRESENCE AT RED HOOK-GOWAN. TB WARD TO MAKE ARRANGEMENTS STOP FIRST FLOOR OFFICE 226 VAN BRUNT ST. BROOKLYN, NY

Silence stretches out between them. Bucky watches Steve’s eyes scan the words over and over again, like he doesn’t understand them. Maybe he doesn’t.

“Steve,” Bucky says again. He puts a tentative hand on Steve’s shoulder and Steve shudders and jerks away, dropping the telegram. He watches Steve’s face crumple like paper before he hides it behind his hands and lets out a loud, ugly sob.

Bucky grabs him and pulls him in. Steve struggles for about half a second before giving up. Bucky can feel tears seeping into his shirt and Steve’s body is shaking so hard that Bucky’s afraid Steve’s going to trigger an asthma attack. He takes note of Steve’s nebulizer stashed away in the cabinet above the sink so he can make a run for it at the first sign of wheezing.

They stand there for a long time. Bucky’s sure the potatoes are ruined by now but he can’t bear to move. Every time he thinks Steve’s all cried out, he starts up again. The sun sets and they’re left standing in a dark room, neither of them bothering to turn on a light.

It kills Bucky that he can’t do anything for Steve. He tries rubbing his back soothingly but it doesn’t seem to help. He doesn’t even bother with words of comfort because he knows they won’t mean anything, not now.

They go to bed without eating and Steve clings to Bucky all night. Steve sleeps heavily, exhausted from crying, but Bucky doesn’t sleep at all.

 

The funeral is on a brilliantly sunny morning, but the wind’s howling through the city like it does this time of year, negating any kind of warmth. Bucky serves as a pallbearer in lieu of Steve, who’s too little to lift the heavy oak casket, along with the O’Kelley brothers from upstairs and a few guys from the Heights, where Steve and his ma lived before the crash. Steve sits with the Barnes family, looking ragged and hollow, eyes rimmed red and blue.

The wind sweeps the priest’s words away during the burial.

Bucky walks Steve home in silence, his shoulders hunched forward in a way that must be painful for his crooked spine. They’d already gotten to Steve’s door by the time Bucky drums up the courage to speak.

“So how was it?”

“It was okay,” Steve says, exhaustion creeping into his voice. “She’s buried next to Dad.”

“I was gonna ask—”

“I know what you’re gonna say, Buck,” Steve cuts him off, rummaging in his pocket for the key.

“We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we was kids,” Bucky insists. “It’ll be fun. All you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash.” He kicks the cinder block near the railing and grabs the spare key from the floor, the one he always uses to let himself in. “C’mon.”

“Thank you, Buck.” Steve takes the key and looks him up and down with those dumb puppy dog eyes. “But I can get by on my own.”

“The thing is, you don’t have to.” He claps his hand on Steve’s shoulder and squeezes. “I’m with you till the end of the line, pal.”

* * *

 

“Bucky,” Steve turns his head towards Bucky. They’d found a quiet spot tucked in the corner of the Rockaways and they’re pretty much alone, save for two or three couples and some guys tossing a pigskin around a little ways down the beach. Steve’s gotten a spectacular sunburn that Bucky just _knows_ he’ll be whining about for days and peeling off like a creepy little snake. He spends every summer eyeing Bucky’s tan enviously.

“Hm,” Bucky hums. He’d been dozing off, the heat of the sun making him drowsy.

“Bucky, I’m dropping out.”

That wakes Bucky up.

“Steve, no!” Bucky shoots up, his sunglasses slipping down his face with the force of it.

“I can’t afford to work part-time anymore,” Steve sighs. He seems resigned to it, like he’d made his decision a long time ago. He probably had.

“No, Stevie, come on,” Bucky says. “I’ll split my paychecks with you, it’s not like I need it to pay rent.”

“Bucky, please.” That’s a lost cause and Bucky knows it, but it didn’t stop him from trying.

“You’re supposed to be a famous artist.” Bucky’s voice comes out like a petulant kid’s.

“I can do that with two years of schooling,” Steve answers coolly.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes. “Yeah. Of course.”

“We’re gonna be at war soon,” Steve points out. “And they’ll need every body they can get. So I’ll join the army and then I’ll be set.”

“Right, ‘cause they wanted you so bad last time,” Bucky snorts. He knows Steve’s still sore about that, and the comment earns him a disgruntled look from Steve, but he doesn’t regret it.

 

Steve’s right, of course.

Congress enacts the draft a month later. The nation is going crazy, railing up for a war that they’re not even a part of yet. There are lines of men wrapped around the block of recruitment centers, eager for their names to be put in the reserves. Bucky and Steve go together and he can’t help but notice that Steve’s form says his address is in New Haven. Bucky’s not sure Steve’s even been to Connecticut, but he bites back the comment.

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on tumblr at sophelstien!


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